Old Court Life in Spain; vol. 2

“It is because I am true to you, Juan, that I tremble. The dread of this diabolical man haunts me. He may cast a spell on me also.”

Though her look was determined, she spoke in a soft voice, flashing a look on the king out of those dark orbs of hers which seemed to catch the rays of the outer sunshine and strike straight into his heart. Then she extended her hand with a smile so sweet in its dignity as altogether to melt his sensitive nature, always realising in her the heroine of his poetic dreams.

“What rapture to be thus loved!” he murmured. “Can I deny this exquisite creature anything she desires?” No one, he told himself, had ever been so sweet as she. Ought he not to guard her from any chance of peril? Might not the accusation she had recalled be true? He had never dared to examine too closely the relations between the constable and the late Queen Maria de Aragon. How different was Isabel! Her thoughts were all for him. What ought he to do?

An abyss of unfathomable doubt engulfed him. Was Luna indeed an agent of the Evil One as she said, or was he his devoted servant and friend? And all the time these clashing thoughts were chasing each other through his weary brain, Isabel, by a caressing movement, was drawing closer and closer to him as he listened to the soft tones of her voice, so different to the authoritative accents of the constable.

“Fie, fie, my dear lord,” she was saying, “is it meet that he make of you but a painted image? A phantom in the state? With sorrow and shame your nobles behold it. Can you wonder that the prince hates him? Resolve, by one bold act, to rid yourself of him for ever. Banish him, imprison him, execute him, so that you reign.”

The sound of her words still lingered like music in the warm air, when a silver bell sounded in the ante-room, the tapestry before the door was withdrawn, and a page entered, making a profound obeisance.

“Don Juan the King,” he said, “the most revered the Bishop of Avila waits without on urgent business of state. He comes as the messenger of the Conde de Luna; he has already conferred with the secretary, Don Diego de Bavena.”

At this announcement, the queen hastily left her seat, bowed low to Don Juan, who kissed her hand with the utmost ceremony and led her to the door, where she again saluted him before joining her dueñas-in-waiting.

But the words had been spoken, the impression made, and, however Isabel might resent the intrusion of the bishop, she had almost persuaded the king that the days of the haughty favourite were numbered.

Whatever were the faults or the misdeeds of the House of Trastamare, the courtesy of their manners was beyond dispute.

Nothing could have been more inopportune than the entrance of the Bishop of Avila, but Don Juan received him in so royal a fashion he could not for a moment have imagined he was not welcome.

“To what happy chance do I owe your presence?” asked the king.

“Nothing auspicious brings me to your Highness,” was the reply, “in place of the High Constable.”

“Is he not coming?” asked the king quickly, a look of relief spreading over his face.

“He is not; a most base calumny prevents him. The Conde de Luna is accused of having caused the assassination of Don Alfonso de Vivars. Until his sovereign publicly justifies him, he prefers to retire to his castle of Portello.”

“What! Vivars murdered!” cried Don Juan, evincing genuine emotion at the news. “How did this come about? I know he is a violent opponent of the constable, but what grounds are there for suspicion that he is concerned in his death?”

“None that I know of,” answered the bishop, “except public report, which is alien to the Conde de Luna.”

“But I can give your Grace reasons,” cried a voice from within, “if you will listen to me, which you never do,” and the Prince of the Asturias stormed into the room.

“Peace! Infante, or speak with more respect,” said the king, the whole equilibrium of his gentle character overset by this turbulent onslaught.

Don Enrique was so violent and headstrong, that his father positively dreaded the sight of him when they met, which was not often. Not one jot, however, did this terrible son yield of his insolent bearing.

“Respect to whom respect is due, my lord,” were his words, his young face crimson with rage and defiance. “I presume that this holy ecclesiastic (that is the word, though it is nought in this case) is imparting to you the news of the new crime of your favourite. He is ready at getting rid of his enemies; but this time it is done so boldly in the broad face of day the whole nation cries shame. Will your Grace create him to some new honour to reward him?”

As he spoke, the prince looked so furious as he advanced close to his father that the bishop interposed, but in vain.

“It is of no use,” he continued, fronting the king almost with menace, “to give you proofs of the guilt of the constable in this atrocious vengeance on an enemy; you would not believe me if I did. But I do not intend to be silent. I shall address the nation, which has already judged him for what he is.”

All this time the king had stood silent, contemplating his son with an expression of contempt. He was used to his violence.

“Whatever you say will be undutiful,” he replied at last, “and unfitting for a father’s ear to hear.”

“Yes, if you call it so,” cried the prince, not at all impressed by this reproof, spoken with more gentleness than seemed possible. “Until you send that arch-impostor, Luna, to the scaffold, we shall never be friends.”

“Then let us remain enemies,” replied the king with dignity; “I will do no man’s bidding.”

But this forbearance only angered the prince all the more.

“The traitor who sold victory over the Moors for a bribe in a basket of figs is then to be let off? Under the walls of Granada he did it, the villain!”

“Be silent, Infante!” cried the king; “you know that story is a lie!”

“By Santiago, I hold it for the truth,” quickly replied the prince. “How comes he by such revenues if he takes no bribes? Not this alone, but many. What need has he of twenty thousand freedmen at his heels when he travels – more than your Highness requires? Has he told you, or have you, my lord bishop, his confidant, that the King of Navarre is advancing on Pamplona? By the living God, my father, if you do not banish this upstart I will join with him against you! Think well of it, my lord. I am brave in the field. I stay not at home, toying with a new wife, singing ballads and romanceros, nor have I poets to amuse me, or Latin books to peruse. But the people will follow me. You and your favourite will be alone, and I shall reign over Navarre, Aragon, Leon, and Castile before you die! Ha! ha!”

With these wild words on his lips, the Prince of the Asturias retired as noisily as he had come, leaving the king, his father, in a state of the deepest dejection. No suffering to him was so great as anger and dispute. Almost rather would he have resigned the crown to his son than endure his sneers. But Luna had always combated this idea vigorously; and now he had married a new queen, and he would like to reign, if only to display her beauty by his side. A feeling of relief came over him that at least she and the prince were not joined together against him, although both were working for the same end – the fall of the constable.

With a deep sigh he sank upon a chair; such violence unhinged him. He could not at once collect his ideas sufficiently to resume his conversation. Then he remembered the murder and the invasion of Navarre.

“Is what the Infante says about Navarre true?” he asked the bishop, who stood respectfully aloof.

“Yes, my lord, they are in force before Pamplona.”

“And he will join them,” muttered the king; “he will disgrace me.” Then aloud, “I pray you, reverend father, to furnish me with the details of this assassination. Am I to understand that the constable is still at Portello?”

“Yes, my lord, he is awaiting judgment.”

“Now who will command my armies?” cried Don Juan, driven to despair by all this accumulation of trouble. “Little do they know what the constable is, who seek his destruction! I pray you, good bishop, to retire for to-day. I am indisposed. Go to Portello and take the constable’s orders as to the disposal of the troops against the King of Navarre. Summon the constable to hasten to me at once.”

“No, my lord, he cannot come before his trial.”

“By the holy Santiago! was ever a man so tormented as I?” exclaimed Don Juan, wringing his hands. “I shall have to lead the troops against my own son, if he carries out his rebellious intention. Adieu, my lord bishop. Salute Luna for me. I never missed him so much as now.”

Whether the Conde de Luna was really guilty of the crimes imputed to him will ever remain an historic problem. He offered no defence now or before. Either he was too conscious of his innocence, or too proud to justify himself.

At length, pressed on all sides, the half-imbecile king signed the order for his arrest, glad at any price to rid himself of importunity. A body of troops under Zuñiga were secretly despatched to surround the castle of Portello, where he had remained since his accusation.

All these preparations could not altogether escape the knowledge of Luna, but, with a fatality common to great ministers, he despised his enemies too much to take any measures against them.

Within a darkened chamber the constable sits in the castle of Portello; no other guards or alguazils man the walls but such as habitually attend on his person. The magnificence of his household has been greatly reduced, as if in deference to the accusations against him. Until lately the cynosure of all eyes, the dispenser of all honours at court and in the camp, he has come to lead a solitary life.

Lost in deep thought he rests his head upon his hand, sitting at a table covered with piles of parchments and papers, under which lies a naked sword.

The night is gathering around. All the noises of the little town have died out. The bells of the churches have long since been silent; the couvre-feu has tolled; the sharp click of the sereno’s metal stick has ceased to strike on the pavement, and the voices of some late revellers have died away in the night wind.

Still the constable sits on. That the thoughts which so absorb him are painful the furrows upon his forehead show, and the deep sighs which occasionally escape him. At all times indifferent to the accessories of dress, now in the middle of life, the plainness of his attire presents a remarkable contrast to the splendour of the court. His mantle and vest are of black cloth of simplest fashion, and he wears none of those jewels which constitute the habitual insignia of rank.

The beauty of his countenance is remarkable. Long black hair, bright and glossy, curls back from his lofty brow, his features aquiline and pointed, of the true Spanish type, give great expression to his eyes, of a somewhat mystic expression, and the deep olive of his skin brings into prominence the rich jet of his pointed beard and moustache. The lightness of his figure and his slender make, not only impart to him height, but make him appear much younger than he really is.

Nor is there any indication about him as he sits so motionless at the table, under the light of a massive silver candelabra, of that supercilious arrogance which has so greatly incensed his enemies.

Altogether he looks born to command men and to fascinate women. Skilled in every accomplishment of the age, fabulously brave, a type of manly beauty, no wonder that Mary of Aragon succumbed to his power and beauty, in contrast to the feebleness of her husband; nor that Isabel, her successor, believing him to exercise magic arts, shrinks from his contact. But the magic of which they accuse him is in the man himself. Luna is the magician, and his commanding intellect, as of a Titan among minnows, has brought his name down from a remote period as one of the most remarkable characters recorded in history.

The low oaken door within the keep in which the chamber of the constable is situated opens suddenly, and an aged jefe stands before him; behind him is his page, Morales.

Resenting any intrusion on his solitude, he looks up sharply, and his eyes fix themselves on them with a menacing expression.

“How dare you enter uncalled for?” he asks in a stern voice, addressing his devoted servant, Gotor, whose white face and trembling limbs announce some extraordinary agitation. “Why are you shaking so, old man?”

“Oh, my lord! my lord! Listen! The royal troops have arrived after dark; they surround the town.”

“Well! What of that?”

“You are in danger, my dear master!” cries Gotor, clasping his hands and approaching nearer to the table at which Luna is seated. “You must instantly conceal yourself until you can escape. I have a disguise ready without.”

“Escape!” cries the constable, rising from his chair. “Never! I have lived in danger of my life for the last twenty years. I care not for the petty plots of traitors whom I will soon hang up as high as Haman.”

“But the king, my lord! The king – he has forsaken you. He sends these troops. I know it,” put in Morales, coming to the front in spite of the terror with which the constable inspires him. “Hearing the movement in the town, I have been down among the alguazils who accompany the troops. They say that their mission is to seize the High Constable and carry him to Valladolid a prisoner. Fly, my dear master! Let us die for you!” More eager than Gotor, the tears stream from Morales’s eyes as he dares to advance and touch the Conde on the arm.

“No,” answers Luna, shaking him off, and with a stately step turning to pace up and down the chamber. “It is false that Don Juan has himself sent for me. He may be foolish, weak, deceived; but he will never betray his faithful friend.”

“For the love of God, believe me!” pleads Morales, again pressing on the Conde, no muscle of whose face had changed.

“That my enemies are below I do not doubt,” he replies, “but that they are sent by the king, no voice but his own shall convince me.”

“Then, my dear master, we must defend you. Call our slender garrison together, and man the walls with their crossbows.”

No reply comes. Gotor hastily turns towards the door, but the impetuous Morales is before him. The heavy panels turn on their hinges, the lock closes loudly in the silence, and Luna is again alone.

What could those devoted servants do against the strong force under Conde de Zuniga? A few crossbows were discharged, some swords were drawn. Morales fell wounded, Gotor was taken prisoner, and the besieged were overpowered.

Zuniga, furious at the opposition, appeared on the platform in front of the castle gate clad in a complete suit of dark armour greaved with steel, wearing his visor down, preceded by a herald bearing the red and yellow flag of Spain.

“In the name of Don Juan, King of Castile and Leon,” cries the herald. “Oh, hear, hear him. I, Don Alfonso de Zuniga, leading the armies of the king, command Don Alvarez de Luna, Constable of Castile and Leon, instantly to surrender his person for trial on the charge of foul murder, or the castle of Portello shall be consigned to the flames. Lord High Constable, I call on you, in the king’s name, to answer.”

“I am here to reply to the Conde de Zuniga,” answers Luna, appearing under the arch of a Gothic window over the gallery, with the same dignity of presence as if he were receiving him as a guest. A blind confidence in his power over the king still possesses him, and, besides, to his haughty spirit, the humiliation of submission to his enemies is bitterer than death.

“Answer me also. What mean you, Don Alfonso de Zuniga, by besieging my castle?”

A tone of offended dignity is in his voice, but he does not condescend to any other expression.

“I come on a warrant from the king,” answers Zuniga, displaying a parchment which he hands to the herald, who holds it up extended on a lance.

“The king!” cries Luna, with more passion than he has yet shown. “It is a lie! This is some foul scheme to trap me into your hands.”

“Look at that document,” cries Zuniga, chafing under the insolent bearing of the constable, and as the sun, which has now risen, shines upon the rocky platform on which they stand before the castle, the brilliant colours of “the castle and the lion,” are plainly displayed emblazoned on the sheet. “If you submit,” continues Zuniga, advancing to where Luna stands at the casement, “such respect as your rank entitles you to is guaranteed; I swear it on the honour of a Castilian. My orders are to conduct you to Valladolid in honourable custody, and to demand your sword.”

“Take my life with it, if you list!” cries Luna, in a voice of bitter anguish, “if my lord and master has in truth given me into your hands.”

The one desire of Luna was to obtain an interview with the king. Well did he estimate his craven and helpless nature and that, if once admitted to his presence, the long supremacy he had exercised over him would at once return. The queen was equally determined that so dangerous an interview should not take place. It was the influence of the moment which always decided Don Juan, if any decision he ever had at all.

“I will not admit the Conde de Luna to my presence,” was his answer to the messengers sent to Burgos.

“Nor has such a traitor the right to ask it,” added the queen – who now habitually took part in the Council of State – standing behind him, her dark eyes flashing fire.

Three long days passed within the noble hall with the artesonado ceiling, where Luna was confined in the Casa de las Argollas (the iron links), still entire and standing in the Plaza Viega of Valladolid – three days of terrible suspense, yet with the absolute assurance that Don Juan would relent. He had been guilty of no crime; he deserved no punishment from the master he had so faithfully served. His arrogant nature was maddened under the delay, but he suppressed the expression of his indignation until he should stand face to face with the king.

The long hours passed, no message came. Then, yielding to the alarm of the friends who had gathered round him, he wrote that historic letter, each word of which has come down to us.

“Forty-five years of my life, King Don Juan, have been passed in your service; nor have I ever heard a word of complaint from your lips. The favours you have showered on me were greater than my deserts, and certainly more than my desire. To my prosperity one thing was wanting —caution. In the days when you loved me I should have retired from court and enjoyed in an honourable retreat the well-earned proofs of your munificence.

“But I was either too generous or presumptuous, and I continued to lead the state as long as I deemed my sovereign needed me. In this, O King of Castile, I was myself deceived.”

So completely had Don Juan’s heart at this time been hardened against him, that, resolute for once, instead of a reply, the trial of the High Constable was decided on. The crimes of which he was accused were many. First, the assassination of the Conde de Vivars; then vague charges of embezzlement of the royal revenues, of having possessed himself by magic of the will of the king and of his late queen; of being a tyrant, without specifying any act of tyranny, and of usurping the royal authority, without stating on what occasion.

So irregular and illegal were the conditions of the tribunal, composed of accusers and judges, that it went far toward proving not only his innocence, but a preconceived conclusion against him. He was condemned to death.

Still he could not be brought to believe in his danger. When the sentence was read to him, he bowed his grand head, covered with the glossy curls, and was silent. A defiant smile parted his lips, as, roused from his usual apathy, his eyes travelled slowly round from one to the other of his judges.

Had not a fortune-teller predicted he should die in Cadahalso, the name of one of his fiefs? And he was now in prison in Valladolid! But he forgot that, in Spanish, Cadahalso also means scaffold, and that on the scaffold he was condemned to die.

He was condemned, but the warrant of death had not yet been signed by the king; at any time he might revoke it. The queen knew this and watched him.

The fatal paper lay on a table in his retiring-room, untouched. Long Don Juan contemplated it in silence, absorbed in more gloomy reflections than he had ever felt before.

He imagined he was alone, but the queen, who never left him, was concealed behind the arras.

Poor helpless, foolish sovereign! the atrocity of the act bewildered him. A confusion of ideas troubled his spirit. As he gazed, the letters stood out as if in characters of blood before his eyes.

What! he told himself, as he cast sad glances upon the paper, and pang after pang of real sorrow shot from his inmost soul – the death of Luna, whom he had loved when yet a little child, and his firm hand upheld his tottering steps! The man in whom he had placed implicit trust and whose genius left to him only the luxury, not the cares, of sovereignty. Luna, the brave, the poetic knight, whose romantic career had fired his fancy with the enthusiasm of a second Cid! Luna, his favourite, friend, the support of his throne! The touch of his familiar hand seemed to grasp his own! The superb majesty of his presence became tangible to him as he paced up and down the apartment, a prey to a waking vision, called up by the vivid image of his life. The constable! Always the constable! Where was he? Would he answer to his call, and make his life pleasant to him as heretofore? For a moment he forgot the existence of the queen. Her blandishments and pleadings faded away as a mist before the sun. His weak mind, unable to battle with such a tumult of ideas, recalled no reason why his great minister should not be before him. There, opposite, on the seat where he had sat so many years, and raised his sonorous voice to comfort him. Dead! Condemned! Impossible! It was an evil dream. His hand was already outstretched to rend the parchment, the sight of which had caused him such agitation, and by swift messengers to recall him to his side, when Queen Isabel stood before him.

“What! my dear lord!” she cried, in that melodious voice which she never allowed to reach his ears but as a harmony, laying her hand upon his as she spoke and drawing him from the table where the sentence lay, “can it be true that you hesitate, when my safety and that of the nation are at stake?”

In a confused silence he listened.

Attired in long robes of deepest mourning, which set off the luscious brilliance of her complexion, she looked the ideal embodiment of woe. Her large eyes were dull and veiled as she turned them imploringly on the king, her whole being expressed the most poignant grief. Isabel was perhaps the handsomest woman of her time, and, as such, bequeathed it to her great daughter, Isabella of Aragon. She was at least the most subtle. She knew that as long as Luna lived, the king might escape her at any moment.

Impulsively she grasped both his hands, she laid her cheeks next to his. Thus they stood for awhile; his arms clasped around her in a fervid embrace. What beauty, what devotion was hers! Could he pain this transcendent creature? These tears which lay on her eyelids like roseate dew he could kiss off, but no further cause must be given her to shed them.

“Oh, Juan!” she whispered, her words reaching his ears like ineffable sighs, “why will you spare the criminal whose death I desire? Why will you support a wretch whom every noble in your kingdom would see in his grave? Your very crown is in danger! Your son is in revolt! Your cousin, the Infante of Aragon, favours him; the King of Navarre – ”

At the detested name of Navarre and his cousin of Aragon, who were both, in this troubled and odious reign, continually conspiring against him, the king gave a great start. Such energy as he possessed suddenly came back to him.

“If you could prove that, my Reina!” he cried, every feature in his face working with passion.

“I can! I can!” she answered; “the proofs are in my possession.” Then, gently drawing him towards the table, on which lay the fatal document, she placed a pen in his hand. “Sign, Juan,” she said, “for the sake of my unborn child!”